


Lied von der unruhevollen Jugend

by Feverdream (Hochrot)



Series: Lied von der unruhevollen Jugend [1]
Category: Feeling B, Rammstein
Genre: Developing Friendships, Feeling B era, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hints of Paul/Flake, M/M, Rambly stream-of-consciousness porn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25746688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hochrot/pseuds/Feverdream
Summary: “Listen, I’m drunk, but not that drunk,” tries Till. Paul grabs the bottle of schnapps that’s still on the table and pours him a shot. Till chuckles, disbelief painted all over his face, but knocks it back. Paul looks at him, a silent question clear in his eyes, and pours him a second one. Till sinks it.“You’ve got some nerve, Landers.”“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Relationships: Paul Landers/Till Lindemann
Series: Lied von der unruhevollen Jugend [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2047319
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a series of encounters between Paul and Till in 1989, (very) vaguely inspired by Hea Hoa Hoa Hea Hea Hoa. It's my first fic for this fandom. 
> 
> Oh, and English isn't my first language, I hope it's still bearable (and if by any chance, someone would be willing to beta, hit me up!).

It’s way past midnight. Paul drank too much and he’s on fire.

He feels amazing. Remains of take-away food and beers are scattered on the table and a mixtape he's been given a couple of hours before is playing in the background, shrieking and noisy. Sprawled across their battered armchair, Paul is smoking, his beer-can-turned-ashtray resting on his belly, and staring at his friends cramped on the couch. Flake is taking all the room, tipsy and awkward, and Till is clumsily folded on one side. Funny how different he looks in Berlin compared to when he’s in his element, in the countryside: his eyes turn bluer, colder, his shoulders and jaws more square, armor-like. It’s probably because he’s not quite comfortable and Paul feels a bit sorry about that. But then, he’s very willing to do anything it takes to make him feel more at ease.

Paul always feels elated after a show. Maybe that’s why since they came back from the gig he played with Die Firma, he’s outrageously flirting with Till. For the first time, Till decided to spend the night at Flake and Paul’s instead of visiting one of his numerous—Paul imagined their number infinite—lovers. It’s making him antsy. Seeing the faces Flake has been making—rolling his eyes, snorting, and occasionally facepalming—, he’s probably being painfully obvious, but Till still seems unfazed.

In the subway back home, already quite tipsy, he tripped and collapsed on Till who, of course, caught him chivalrously. His body felt solid, warm, and tempting against his, and yes, maybe Paul took advantage of the situation to discreetely feel him up. The look Flake gave him was quite clear: he believed that Paul did it on purpose and that he was being ridiculous. Maybe, but then he was the one in Till’s arms, and Till just laughed it off, obviously not too bothered by the whole thing—nor the odd looks they were getting.

At first, it was something they shared, this boyish crush they had on Till; a mix of fondness, fascination, and admiration. But if Flake managed to keep it friendly and endearing, Paul, on the other hand, felt it spin out of proportion. Till is tall and muscular, dark and mysterious; he owns a house full of weird stuff he found God knows where, he drums, he fixes things, he carries everything that needs to be carried, scares away anyone who gets in the way. Most of the time, he’s very quiet, looking in the distance with his big, melancholy eyes, but Paul and Flake had discovered with delight that he’s capable of the most outrageous things.

When they met, rumor had it he had three girlfriends at the same time—two in Rokstok and one in Schwerin—, that he’d fucked his father’s colleague or her daughter, that he’d set the barn of someone he had a feud with on fire, that the Stasi was after him, that he worked for the Stasi, that he’d abandoned an ex with a child… Paul took this all with a grain of salt and soon found out that most of this wasn’t true. Still, Till does tend to getting himself in impossible situations—having to raise a little girl on his own not being the least complicated of them—, to setting things on fire, and to stealing anything he can put his hands on.

One night, he convinced them to throw a Molotov on the car of a guy who’d bullied Flake for years. They stole a bottle of vodka, knocked it back, siphoned a truck for gas… The car caught fire spectacularly and they ran away into the night, sneaking in an empty building to hide until the thing settled down. The adrenaline rush had been spectacular as well, as was the look of unadulterated joy on Till’s face. They laughed so much Paul’s sides hurt.

Now, watching Flake and Till sprawled on the couch and listening to their usual banter—Flake’s long, stammering ramblings and Till’s soft, low approvals, their chemistry odd but obvious—fills Paul with warmth and contentment, but it all gets clouded by lust. For a moment, he considers going for it and squeezing in between them. A deep, lazy kiss with a hand pressed between Till’s leg to feel him harden through his pants is all he’d ask for, really. But it’s probably a bit too soon for that. He shakes the thought off and tries to get back into the conversation.

“… I think I like _White Light/White Heat_ better.” Flake looks thoughtful and Till’s whole body is turned towards him. Paul makes the connection with the music playing and rushes to chip in. He wants that body to turn towards _him_.

“How can you say that? I’m into experimental and chaotic stuff as much as you are, but come on, the Velvet Underground and Nico! On top of that, it’s basically the only banana we’ll ever get, here,” he snickers. They chuckle. “You don’t agree, Till?”

“I do. Everything’s better with Nico. I basically spent my teens jerking off to a picture of her, so.”

“How romantic,” giggles Flake.

“Actually, it kind of is: I got busted in Italy where I was for a competition.” Till has tons of stories of his time in sports school. They’re almost the same age, but it feels like he had three or four different lives already. “I’d sneaked out and stolen a bunch of magazines. They took everything. It was mostly porn but I also had music magazines. The picture of her is all I could save.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Of course I do, it’s in the drawer of my bedside table.”

“Okay, it is kind of romantic,” decides Paul. “Come on, Flake. You must at least have a favorite one on this album.”

“I really like ‘Venus In Furs’. Nothing sounds like that. I’m more of a Lou Reed kinda guy I guess,” he smiles wickedly.

“Lou Reed’s hot,” states Paul, and Flake nods.

They turn to Till, who blushes and shrugs. “If you guys say so.” Then, avoiding the topic: “You’re a kinky bastard though Flake, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I’m not! K-kinky how?”

“ _Venus Im Pelz_ , Flake. The bible of masochism, you should know that,” explains Paul, and Flake rolls his eyes.

“Sacher Masoch…” murmurs Till, pensive. “God, I spent my teens jerking off to that too.”

“Were you jerking off all the time?”

“More or less,” he chuckles. “You didn’t?”

“Where could you find books by Sacher Masoch in the seventies?” asks Paul, determined to keep Till talking. “I’m not even sure we have it at the library now.”

“In my father’s office. He’s always been so desperate to see me read that he let me borrow whatever I wanted. He had fairly interesting things hidden behind all the Russian stuff,” he says with a crooked smile. Paul feels something flutter in his belly. “What about you, Paul? You must have a favorite too.”

Paul ponders for a minute and realizes the answer is evident. “‘I’m Waiting for the Man’,” he says, his grin wide and triumphant.

*

It all started when they got serious with the album. Amiga gave them studio time, but since they often rehearsed at Till’s, who had a fairly nice drum kit, they figured they could also record bits there. It wasn’t the first time they’d spent a weekend at his place, but still, Paul hardly knew anything of the guy. Till was reserved and secretive, even when he was letting almost strangers in his home. It used to be the house of a station master and abandoned train tracks crossed through what was now the garden. The first time they’d come over, Till had helped them tie Aljoscha to the rails and they'd whooped loudly like Indians in a cowboy movie.

Often, he came to pick Flake and Paul up at the train station—the others would arrive with the van later on. It was the end of September. In Berlin, summer was vanishing, gray finally triumphing over the short respite of August, but in the countryside, despite the copper shine of the leaves and the sunlight turning gold, the air was still warm and balmy. When they arrived at Till’s place, he excused himself, sheepish, saying he had to take care of some business. They followed him to the shed at the back of the house and discovered the “business”: a dead deer was hanging from a beam.

Flake immediately turned around, a bit pale. “I’m going to get some groceries,” he said, and Till threw him the keys of the car with an apologetic smile.

“You don’t have to stay,” he told Paul. “But I have to do this now otherwise it will be spoiled.”

“I don’t mind, maybe I can help.” He’d watched his grandmother kill and prepare chickens when he was a child, he’d seen Till run over rabbits with his old Trabant on the way to the station, and he figured it would be more or less the same thing. “If anything, I can keep you company.”

Till gave him a lopsided smile. He took off his sweater, put on an apron, and grabbed a knife. It flickered in the sun, sharp and chrome.

“Sure. I can always use another pair of arms.” Paul looked with a mix of fascination and disgust as Till made a long, confident incision from the crotch of the animal to its neck as if he’d been doing that all his life. “Brace yourself,” he said and opened the deer for good. The stench kicked the breath out of Paul and for a moment, he thought he was going to throw up.

“What the fuck?!”

“You can’t expect them all to have fully digested when they get killed...”

“God, how can you stand that?”

“I’m used to it. Doesn’t mean I don’t smell it though,” explained Till with a frown and a slight curl of his lip. “Can you bring me the basin, here?”

Breathing through his nose and trying hard to keep his composure—he was aware by then he’d gotten ahead of himself but he didn’t want Till to think he was a wimp—, Paul did, then watched Till weave his knife expertly through a maze of entrails.

“Did you kill it yourself?” he started, a diversion from the gruesome spectacle.

“No, it’s a present from the neighbor. He killed it early this morning and gave it to me because he killed more than they could eat… Hunting season just started, he probably got overenthusiastic.”

“That’s nice, I guess… Is he a friend or something?”

“No, I hardly know him. We say hi, exchange a bit of small talk sometimes. He knows my parents, calls me son, that kind of stuff. I know his wife better, though.” He met Paul’s eyes and gave him a thin, ambiguous grin.

“How come?”

Till paused and brushed his fringe out of his face with the back of his wrist, still getting some blood on his brow. “He’s working long days—has an important job, I can’t remember what. But she’s home at four every day. She has no kids and it’s secluded here. She gets lonely, so she comes over. I pour her a cup of coffee. I fuck her. She leaves so dinner is ready when he gets home. My come’s probably still seeping from her pussy when he comes back.” His face was closed but his eyes were glistening.

“You fuck his wife and he gives you food? Now that’s a dream neighbor,” giggled Paul, although he was somewhat unsettled by how cold and delighted Till sounded.

“He doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Fuck, no, I don’t think so… I hope not!” huffed Till, and he focused on the task at hand again. He soon had an armful of guts he dropped in the basin. “Grab the hose, Paul. Can you help me rinse my hands? Then we’ll just need to clean the carcass.”

Paul did as he was told, feeling quite tough and manly, but couldn’t resist the urge to direct the spray of water in Till’s face.

“Fuck you, Landers!” he exclaimed, laughing, and wiped his still bloody hands on Paul’s face, making him squeal. After cleaning up for good, Till opened himself a beer and gave one to his friend. “So… What about you? Any girlfriend?”

“Eh… Not really.” Paul was a bit surprised: Till initiating a vaguely personal conversation wasn’t a very common occurrence, but then he probably needed a break. “Since I’ve divorced—jeez, it sounds so big, doesn’t it?—, I think I don’t want to get involved in anything. If I can hook up with a friend, that’s fine. Music is taking so much of my time I don’t have room for much more at the moment. If I’m not at work, I’m with the guys. It’s like an old marriage or something.”

Till smiled. “You mean it’s true, what they say? About Aljoscha and his boys?”

“It’s not exactly like that,” chuckled Paul.

Till went back to work, now making methodical, complicated cuts in the deer’s skin, and continued. “Aljoscha's into guys, though, right? I’m pretty sure he made a pass at Scholle last time...”

“Really? I have no idea. He’s definitely into guys but to be honest, I always had the idea he’s not too fond of Scholle,” mused Paul. “I wouldn’t be surprised, though. Scholle’s hot,” he added with a small smile.

Till’s eyebrows arched. “Swinging both ways too?”

“Well, it may be a bit of a stretch, but sort of, I guess,” said Paul, intrigued by the turn of the conversation.

“What does that mean? As Flake would say, you fuck or you don’t fuck—you can’t sort of fuck.” Till was staring intently at what he was doing and Paul couldn’t see his face.

“Let’s put it this way: I’m into women but some guys are worth an exception.” Paul bit his lower lip, looked for Till’s eyes, then felt himself smile, slow and easy. There—retrospectively, that was probably the first time he flirted with him. He didn’t even do it consciously. Till’s gaze was opaque, bright green. He chuckled.

“Is it mandatory to be in the band? What about Flake?”

“No, not really, Flake is…” hesitated Paul. “Let’s say he’s not really into that.” Till gave him a questioning look but didn’t press the subject. It made Paul bold. “What about you then, Till?”

“Me? Nah, not my thing. I never gave it a second thought, to be honest. Half of humanity sounds like it’s enough I guess?”

Paul chuckled. “You mean there is such a thing as enough for you when it comes to that?” Till smiled mischievously. “It’s not what it’s about though.”

“I guess it’s not. I didn’t mean anything by that. Let’s say that I’d rather not have anyone too close to my ass then?”

Paul’s grin widened. “You mean you’re afraid? Come on, who’s tough now?” Till rolled his eyes, and laughed when Paul added, “Besides, you’re missing out.”

“Right. Now brace yourself, tough guy.” Till slid his fingers under the skin of the deer, at the top of its thighs, and proceeded to peel it back slowly, huffing under the effort, until the whole carcass was exposed. Paul retched. It was revolting. Noticing that he’d turned livid, Till said, merciful: “Come on, city boy. Grab two spades and go and wait for me near the alder. I’m almost done.”

“Which one is the alder?” asked Paul, relieved.

“God, don’t they teach you anything in school?” snickered Till. “It’s the big one back there.”

Paul hurried out and laid down comfortably under the tree, enjoying the absence of dead flesh, the fresh air of the afternoon, and watching the sunbeams play through the leaves. The whole conversation was playing back in his mind. It wasn’t that often that he spent time alone with Till and he was almost sorry it was over. For some reason, all he could think about was the neighbor’s wife. Was she coming over often? Would they have small talk—he doubted it, Till was terrible at that—or would he take her to bed as soon as she arrived? Would he fuck her directly on the couch? On the kitchen counter where he prepared them coffee so many times? Would they indulge in long foreplay or would it be just a quick, heated shag? Paul tried to picture several scenarios, all of them ending up focusing on Till’s strong hips and muscular arms rather than on some hypothetical woman. God, those arms…

He was aware of the change unfolding within himself and he relished in the ambiguity, for he knew it wouldn’t last. The shift from playful admiration and blooming friendship to fascination and unabashed lust felt both infinitesimal and gigantic, threatening and heady. He was more familiar with being wanted by men than wanting them.

Till did say he was straight but Paul wasn’t too impressed by that. He thought he was too—until he knew better.

A few minutes later (Five? Twenty? Paul had lost any sense of time), Till joined him, and the fleeting moment was already over: when he rose to his feet, desire punched the breath out of him. It was like he’d been aware of Till’s body for the first time: the warmth radiating from it, the smell of sweat and aftershave, his odd composure—straight, almost confident, but not quite—, the grain of his skin, rough on his cheeks, tantalizingly smooth on his shoulders.

“Now, we dig,” just said Till with a small, oblivious smile. Paul was feeling a bit dizzy, maybe because he stood up too fast, maybe for another reason. “We need to bury the remains. We don’t need to dig a big hole, it just has to be a bit deep otherwise all the cats and dogs of the neighborhood will come and make a mess.”

They dug. It was not that hard but it was getting hot out there and Paul was annoyed: he was struggling to copy what Till was doing effortlessly. “Come on, it’s deep enough, isn’t it?”

“We’re about halfway. It’s not that bad. I can finish on my own if you’re tired,” offered Till, always the gentleman.

“I’m not tired,” snapped Paul. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“You know, if you would use your whole body weight when you dig, you’d be much more efficient.” No trace of snicker in Till’s voice, which felt even more humiliating.

“I know that!” Paul planted his spade on the ground. “Besides, you can talk, but your posture is all wrong.”

“How is my posture wrong?”

Paul had no idea what he was talking about, but the occasion was too good: he got behind Till, tugged on his shoulders to force him to stand very straight, placed his hands on the handle of the spade in whatever position he found aesthetically pleasing, and pushed his chin up. Pliant, Till let Paul do with the same mix of patience, irritation, and distress he would display whenever Nele was being difficult. Paul chuckled with delight. He wondered what would happen if he'd give in and planted a warm, wet kiss to the hollow between Till’s collarbones or the delicate spot behind his ear.

“What are you even doing?” complained Till eventually.

Paul took a few steps back to get a proper look. “You look so fucking good like that,” he beamed.

Till snorted. “Now if you don’t mind, get the fuck out of the way and let me finish up.”

“Fine!” Paul plopped down under the tree again and watched Till go back to work. It was a feast for the eyes. Till’s undershirt was the most flattering thing on earth and left very little to the imagination. On his chest and armpits, his hair, dark and wet with sweat, was just the right amount of obscene. Paul watched his biceps swell with each spadeful with the same embarrassed pleasure than when as a teen, he stared at the bouncing breasts of the girls during gym class. Then Flake arrived, bringing a whole crate of beers.

“God, I was starting to wonder where you guys disappeared to!” he huffed, handing them a bottle each. Paul watched in rapture as Till threw his head back to take a long swig. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a way that made him weak at the knees. “What are you even doing?” Paul knocked back half of his beer as they both listened to Till’s explanations. Flake turned to him. “And you?”

“I think that’s obvious: enjoying the view and the nice summer breeze.”

“You don’t help? How am I not surprised?”

“You see, in this world there are two kinds of people, my friend: those with loaded guns and those who dig. He digs,” answered Paul, firing a finger gun at him. Giggling, Flake flopped down next to him. Till shook his head but smiled and went back to work.

“I don’t really need an audience for that,” he protested.

“Of course you do! This is such an edifying spectacle. Flake, behold this masterpiece of socialist realism! It makes me want to run for the nearest spade and build back the whole country.” The other two laughed, and he went on singing with his deepest, most booming voice: “ _Zhila by strana rodnaya, I netu drugikh zabot!_ ”

“Here he goes again,” sighed Flake to a confused Till. “It happens sometimes. Usually, it means he’s happy.”

“What? Him singing in Russian?”

“You don’t know this song? God, what do they teach you in school?”

“I didn’t know it either, Paul, I’m pretty sure you learned that in Russia,” snapped Flake, but Paul ignored it. He was having the best idea he'd had for weeks.

“This is something I learned in school. It’s awesome, I covered it with a band already. What about we cover it with Feeling B, Flake? It would be great, Amiga would love it!”

“I don’t know about that,” mused Flake. “It would be so obvious even them would c-catch the irony, I’m afraid.”

“Of course they won’t! Missing the irony is the core principle of the GDR.”

“He has a point here,” chipped Till.

“I’m glad you agree, Till, because I have big plans for you: we’ll need you for backing vocals.”

“I don’t sing, Paul.”

“Of course you do, I’ve heard you a couple of times.”

“I was drunk.”

“That can be arranged.”

Till didn’t answer immediately, taken aback. “Why me?”

“Because you sound like the whole Red Army Choir of course! Us fairies could never pull it off.”

“You know what? I’m starting to think it is actually a good idea,” said a smiling Flake to a triumphant Paul. Till was making his patient-annoyed-pained face again.

“We’ll see,” he muttered finally. “Can we finish that first though?” He poured the remains of the deer in the hole, Flake barely daring to watch through his fingers, and they all helped him fill it up again.

“Jesus, I feel like we’re mobsters hiding a corpse.” Flake was trying to kick the pile of ground back in the hole.

Till lit a cigarette. “Well, that’s kind of what it is.”

Paul gave them a sly smile. “That’s what real friends are for: helping you hide a corpse if needed, no questions asked.”

“Would you do it, Till? Would you do this for us?” asked Flake.

“Is there something you guys forgot to tell me?” answered Till with a breathy laugh. “Fuck yeah, I would. See, I’ve got practice.” For the first time, Paul saw him really beam. It looked like the burning days of summer.

The rest of the day was spent in a sunny haze, Paul and Flake rehearsing and coming up with new ideas, Till offering discreet supervision—providing drinks, advice, suggestions, and drumbeats whenever needed. The heated feelings from earlier had receded and when the rest of the band came along in the evening to try and record some snippets, they turned into faint memories, like the ones from a dream.

He shared a cigarette on the porch with Flake and Till before going to bed. The stars were pale and the lights from the inside painted dramatic shadows on Till’s face, making his scars more obvious and his features sharper. Did Paul stare more than usual? Maybe. He was tired and his thoughts were fuzzy.

The next morning, he woke up in a sweat. He was lying on his belly and he’d felt a presence behind him—a body weighing him down, warm and heavy. It was a man: they were both naked and the stranger was grinding down on him, his hard cock gliding between Paul’s buttocks. It was incredibly arousing and Paul arched his back to get more friction. When the man moved to brace himself, Paul saw his hands and immediately recognized Till’s. He grabbed one to suck the fingers in his mouth. They tasted of blood. The whole thing had been so erotic the only reason he didn’t come was probably that Flake woke him up too soon.

Till dropped them at the station. When they shook hands, Paul pulled him in for a hug, officially to thank him, secretly to see if the warmth and the strength of his body was anything like in his dream. It was—and it was intoxicating. He considered kissing him on the lips just to give it a try, but he figured he was jittery enough as it was. After hopping in the train, Paul disappeared in the nasty toilet of their coach, shoved his jeans down, and jerked off. He came thinking about Till’s lips, the constellations of scars on his cheeks, and the blood on his hands.

*

Lost in his thoughts, Paul doesn’t even know what his friends are talking about anymore. Which is okay; he’s fine enjoying his buzz and daydreaming, his body pleasantly tired and his mind alert.

Paul isn’t known for being the patient type. As a rule, he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it. And yet he’s been waiting for three or four months already. He doesn’t see Till that often and they’re hardly ever alone together.

At first, he thought this little infatuation would die down fast. He flirted with Till for the fun of it, without necessarily thinking too much about it. He realized there was more to it when he caught him with Flake in his kitchen, peeling some potatoes for the dinner soup. They were laughing and Till had a smile Paul had never seen, relaxed, casual, and open. When he noticed him, something in his composure changed; he stiffened a bit and seemed much more aware of everything around him. For a second, Paul felt offended, then jealous—why could Flake see a part of Till he had no access to?—and he immediately decided to reevaluate his priorities. He was definitely spending too much time on Knolli’s back when they were recording the drums. He never peeled more potatoes than this winter.

One day, at a house party after a gig in some mysterious countryside town, things got more intense and slightly twisted. He was smoking alone on a balcony when he noticed he had a spectacular view of an adjacent room. In that room, a couple was fucking, still half-dressed, the naked legs of the woman tied tight around the guy’s waist. He couldn’t see that well—the lights were dim and a reflection was making things difficult—but he recognized Till by the color of his shirt and the way he flipped his fringe back. Paul felt himself blush instantly. His rational mind suggested that he leave and give his friend some privacy, but his guts advised strongly against it, and he stayed there, drinking his beer and chain-smoking, mesmerized. When he was done, Till slid down between the girl's legs and went down on her until she arched. Paul couldn’t see her upper body: she was naked from the waist down, her skirt lifted up to her shoulders, and looked like a giant flower. His heart was beating very fast and his knees felt about to give in.

When he got his composure back, he went straight to Till and told him with an obscene gesture he knew what he just did. His friend reacted very casually, asking if he was smelling that strongly of pussy. When Paul talked about the room and the balcony, he gave him the sharpest smile. “Did you like the show?” he asked, and for once, Paul was short of a clever come back.

He couldn’t remember how, but Till convinced him to find a girl to fuck so he could watch them as a “payback”. He’d been lucky enough that a friend of his he sometimes hooked up with was at the party, and she followed him to the room, no question asked. They made out for a while and when Paul dared to look at the window, he saw a dark, broad silhouette and the glow of a cigarette. His head was spinning with lust and the adrenaline rush was insane. He pulled on her t-shirt to expose her breasts just so Till could see and fingered her until she came. He almost lost it when she knelt in front of him to suck him off, nothing protecting him from Till’s inquisitive gaze anymore, but luckily enough, he heard someone calling him outside and the shadow disappeared. The whole thing felt manipulative and fucked-up, the kind of twisted shit Till was sometimes into—it also felt very good. They never talked about it afterward, but something shifted slightly. There was a shade of complicity and respect between them that wasn’t there before.

The silence in the room snaps him out of his musings. The tape is finished and both Till and Flake are quiet. He realizes they’d been staring at him.

“Hey look, he’s back!” said Flake to Till with a smirk that makes him wonder what they’ve been talking about while he was lost in his thoughts. “Are you okay, Paul? You should go to bed if you’re tired.” His smile is sly: he knows Paul will never be the first one to go, not when he so desperately wants to lure Till to his room.

“I’m not tired, I’m feeling great. I’m not going anywhere.” He looks at Flake with pleading eyes, hoping Till won’t notice.

“Okay. Well, I will. I’m beat and I have stuff to do tomorrow. C-can you take care of Till’s bed?”

“Sure,” Paul beams, giving Flake a loud kiss on the cheek when he passes him. He gets closer to Till, who smells like booze and cigarette and something that makes his mouth water. “Let me get you a couple of pillows and a comforter.” He quickly arranges everything on the couch, takes a deep breath, and dives. “Here you go. The couch is comfortable enough, I crashed on it tons of times. You can sleep here—or you can spend the night with me.”

“That should be fine, don’t worry. I won’t bother you. I've slept in much worse than that.”

“I was not necessarily talking about sleeping.”

“What?” He can read it on Till’s face when he finally processes what he said. Paul feels like his heart is about to burst. The thrill is fantastic.

“I’ve been told I give pretty good head. You should ask Flake,” he adds with a wolfish smile as Till’s eyes widen.

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Paul gets closer, his gaze unflinching, not trying to hide his intentions the least. He sees Till’s body tense. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be a big deal. I know you turned pussy down for us and I’m just wondering what it feels like to be pinned down by these broad shoulders of yours.” Till is blushing furiously, which delights Paul. He loves to do that—to corner them and win them over. Nothing in Till’s behavior shows that he will accept but Paul is quite confident. He’s used to getting what he wants.

“Listen, I’m drunk, but not _that_ drunk,” tries Till. Paul grabs the bottle of schnapps that’s still on the table and pours him a shot. Till chuckles, disbelief painted all over his face, but knocks it back. Paul looks at him, a silent question clear in his eyes, and pours him a second one. Till sinks it.

“You’ve got some nerve, Landers.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

And finally, he sees the only thing he was waiting for in Till’s eyes: hesitation. He’s considering it. It already feels like a victory.

“Look, I’m honestly kind of flattered but I’m not into that,” he blurts out.

Paul tries not to look too triumphant when he gives him the final blow.

“How do you know?” he whispers, and just like that, he gets closer, shoves the schnapps in his hands, and pecks him on the lips. “Good night, Till. If you change your mind, I’ll be in my room. I’ll leave the door ajar.”

Paul makes a quick exit for extra dramatic effect. Till didn’t really return the kiss but didn’t try to avoid it either. Paul didn’t even meet his gaze, just saw that he looked astounded, which is exactly what he was aiming for.

When he stumbles in the bathroom, he’s almost trembling. Adrenaline pumps fast in his body, everything is slightly spinning. He’s so horny he feels like his whole skin is tingling. He freshens up a bit, in case Till… He didn’t blow him off nor looked threatened or worse, offended—that’s all he was hoping for. He’s counting on Till’s curiosity, constant horniness, and craving for transgression to do the rest. Hell, if Till isn’t going to join him despite all this careful build-up, he may just go back to the living room and crawl next to him on the couch. Something in his guts tells him he wouldn’t turn him down. But then maybe he shouldn’t be a greedy bastard and let it rest. Let Till think about it for a while and patiently lure him in in a week or two.

He doesn’t get the chance anyway. When he opens the door of the bathroom, Till is there and his eyes burn.

“I’m coming with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Paul lets him step in his room first, holding the door for him like a fucking gentleman. Till is a bit more than tipsy, enough to feel all hot and bothered, not enough to lose control. And Till is horny, which applies both to the situation at hand and to his life in general. Things are boring as hell in good old Mecklenburg and he’s restless—has always been. He doesn’t know if the fact that by some kind of miracle, he managed to get his shit together, work, band, Nele and all makes it better or worse, but it sure doesn’t help his tendency to go for anything that’ll have his heart beat a bit faster. Is it why he decided to follow Paul to his bedroom where the sexual tension is so thick you could cut through it? It might be.

Sex gives a good rush and never gets boring.Sex is an interesting way to interact with people, to get to know them, and he really wants to know Paul: under his bubbly front, there’s something tough, almost dark that intrigues him and that’s hard to reach. Sure, he’s not into guys, he thinks, but after all, Paul was right: _how could he know?_ Few words, maximum effect; for him whose life would probably be easier if people didn’t expect him to talk so much, sex is a blessing. It gets him in complicated and intriguing situations, gets him sometimes a slap in the face, often an orgasm. It's not always stellar and the aftermath doesn’t always feel that good, but then that’s probably why he usually wants to start again as soon as possible.

He really had no idea he would get laid this evening, though—not like that, at least. He'd been supposed to spend the night at one of his exes who'd moved to Berlin. They usually hooked up when he was in town. He called her in the afternoon to tell her he would sleep at Paul and Flake's and meet her the next day. He wasn't too sure why he'd done that. They'd been drinking a weird brew made by Flake— _salvia divinoris_ , a plant that he didn't quite manage to grow on their windowsill. It was crazy, hallucinogenic stuff; they sat on their shabby couch, staring at the ceiling for long minutes. The light of the sun on the walls looked like waves, his own heartbeat like backwash to his ears. When he came back to his senses, he was leaning against Flake, face buried in his neck, and he could see his pulse fluttering in a little vein there. Their six hands were arranged in a nice pile on Flake's lap. He'd felt very close to them and wished the moment would last forever.

He lights a cigarette and watches in slight disbelief Paul turn the mess that is his room—scattered clothes, tapes and guitar gear on the floor, a series of black-and-white pictures taped to the wall—into some kind of love nest. He’s all over the place, putting some music on, pouring him schnapps in a cup of stale tea he emptied in a plant that had probably seen better days, dimming the light of the bedside table lamp with a scarf, lighting a couple of candles. Till feels an incomprehensible pang of lust when he realizes he’s probably treating him just like every single girl he fucks.

The music is rhythmical, cold, mean, and makes his blood pump faster. He spots the cassette on top of a collection of more or less crappy bootlegs that are gold in their circles: an angular, cross-like logo, white on black, and some scribbles he can’t read. He goes through the title of the books lying there, some from the library where Paul works, some so damaged they're obviously his. A lot of books about art and photography, Rilke, Brecht, a bunch of Russian novels. He’s flipping through a battered copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ (where had Paul even found it?) when something else picks his attention: hanged to a nail between a couple of flyers, brass knuckles, cool and shiny in the dim light of the room. Till takes one and feels the weight in his hand.

“What the hell are you planning to do with that?” he asks, turning to his friend.

“Nothing, that’s why it’s on the wall,” answers Paul lightly. When he notices Till’s interrogative eyes, he explains: “It’s a present. A soldier that Aljoscha knows quite well, at Hiddensee. First, he gave it to Flake because he thought he needed to be able to stand up for himself. As soon as he had it in his hands, Flake dropped it on his own foot.” Paul grins. “So, yeah. He gave it to me instead, with the mission to fight for Flake if necessary.”

“Did you ever use it?”

“No. I know how to defend myself alright, I don’t need shit like that.”

Till slides his fingers in the cold rings. “Jesus, you could break my jaw with that thing,” he muses.

Paul chuckles, blowing curls of smoke from his cigarette, and goes on, slurring slightly. “What are you afraid of?”

And just like that, Till is reminded of the intensity that’s been building for the last few minutes (probably more, he’s starting to realize) and swallows with difficulty. He puts the brass knuckles back where he found them and tries to give Paul a challenging look.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” offers his friend with a mischievous smile, patting the end of the bed.

Till knows that smile, he’d seen it quite a few times already, but it’s only now he realizes what it means. He’d seen Paul stare at his mouth with blatant lust many times as well, but he’d been too busy not getting the hint to come to any conclusion. He’s flabbergasted and, to his own surprise, quite turned on by just how blunt Paul is. Feeling that wanted is new, uncomfortable, and sexy.

He’s also well aware that a lot of girls—and, well, maybe guys, for all he knows—would like to be in his shoes at the moment. They just like Paul; he’s good-looking and non-threatening, he’s a lot of fun, and he’s in one of the coolest bands around. When Till got to know him, a bunch of his friends asked to be introduced. A girl he was seeing at the time insisted so much that he ended up more jealous and offended that he’d be willing to admit. It turned out that at the party in question, Paul came accompanied already. Till’s girlfriend didn’t even hide her disappointment. He may be getting a kick out of the fact that he’s getting what she wanted.

He forces himself to hold Paul’s gaze—it’s been harder than ever since he stepped in that room—and his eyes are steel grey, hungry, and unflinching. His throat tightens.

They sit at the end of Paul’s unmade bed like fucking teenagers. Even his first time, Till wasn’t that nervous: he’d had a pretty clear idea of what he was expected to do and even though he didn’t do that great, it’d been good enough for everybody involved, or so he thought, at least. Now, though... On one hand, he wants to impress Paul, surprise or shock him maybe, just to get even; on the other, he has no clue what he’s supposed to do and he’s finding out he likes being seduced.

“You can keep it, it’s a great one,” says Paul, gesturing at the book Till forgot he was still holding. “You didn't come here to check my book collection though, did you?”

“No...”

“Listen, if you just want to sleep, we can do that.”

“You don’t look like you mean that at all.”

“Right, I don’t. I’m just trying to be civilized.”

“I’m not exactly a virgin, Paul. No need to handle me with gloves.” He pauses, just a hint of hesitation. “Besides, I don’t feel sleepy at all,” he eventually mutters. It feels like a confession, something that should make him blush, and blush he does.

“Why did you come?” asks Paul, his gaze intent.

“Because you want me,” he blurts out, for lack of any better reason. His cigarette is reaching its end and he nervously grabs the ashtray Paul is handing him.

“Right, I do,” answers Paul, taking a last drag too, obviously nonplussed. “What about you?”

“Me? I, hum... I'm very bad at turning down sex?” He meant it to sound cool and cocky but, to his horror, it just sounds weak and kind of rude.

Paul inches closer. “How smooth, Till. If you're always like that, I'm actually impressed you manage to get laid at all,” he snaps. His tone is playful but Till effectively feels like an idiot. The shine of Paul's eyes proves that he's totally aware that he has the upper hand. Out of his wits, Till gives in.

“Kiss me.”

Paul would probably look smug if he wasn't looking so horny, but to Till's relief, he just leans in and obliges, lips wet and firm, his hand curling around Till's neck, pulling back just an instant to search his eyes. Apparently satisfied with what he finds, he kisses him again, open-mouthed and demanding. Till lets him slide his tongue in his mouth, sucks it in. When they part, they're both out of breath.

A mouth is a mouth, and yet, Paul’s hunger feels unusual—foreign but familiar, like a reflection in the mirror. Foreign as well the stubble on his jaw and the strength in his fingers, familiar the taste of his lips, cigarette and booze and long nights. Under his hand, Paul’s waist feels both slight and sinewy, strong enough to keep Till steady. The kiss is sleazy and deep and very sexual; it leaves him slightly dumbstruck and very hard. He's almost embarrassed at how strongly his body is reacting; this too feels like being a teen all over again. To hide his turmoil, he reaches out and kisses Paul again, intense and aggressive, as if to make a point. He's too drunk and aroused to remember about what.

Soon, Paul’s lips leave his and trace a wet line along his jaw, down his neck, and up again, to the lobe of his ear. A curious hand goes from his thigh to his crotch. Paul hums appreciatively. “How far do you want to take this?” he murmurs.

“Now that I’m here, we may as well have some fun.” Till feels him smile against the side of his neck, and fuck if it doesn’t send shivers down his spine. “So as far as you’re willing to go...”

“All the way then.”

Till doesn’t really know what he means by that. Paul’s tongue flicks at the sensitive spot behind his ear and the heat is pooling deep in his belly. Things may be fuzzy, but if there is one thing Till knows, it's that he’s up for basically anything.

Paul’s hands are now sliding over his chest, slowly up and down. “This is a terrible shirt,” he chuckles.

“Shut up,” whines Till, lips still tingling from the kiss. “You don’t need an excuse if you wanna take it off.”

Paul gives him an unreadable smile, slides down to kneel on the floor, between his legs, and starts working on the buttons. Everything happened staggeringly fast (wasn’t he chatting casually with Flake just five minutes ago?) but this takes excruciatingly long—or so it feels. Till is very aware of the heat of his friend’s hands. He helps him out of his shirt, discarding it on the floor, and starts working on his fly. “C’mon, take it off.”

Till sheds his pants and boxers in a heartbeat. He’s clumsy and it feels awkward as hell to sit naked in front of Paul. He’d seen him in the nude a few times before but it didn’t mean anything back then. He tugs at Paul’s shirt until he takes it off, making things more even.

Paul’s fingers brush his thighs, the sensation so electric it almost burns. Without further ado, he curls them around Till’s cock and swirls his tongue around its warm, pink tip. It takes Till all the self-control he has left to choke back the yelp it gets from him.

A tongue is a tongue, and yet it’s surreal to see Paul kneeling in front of him, his naked shoulders thin and elegant, his lips stretched around his shaft. It’s obvious that he’s done this before—he _knows_ what to do. Things start to spin, the situation feeling both brutally real and almost dreamy. The silk of Paul’s tongue and the inside of his cheeks grounds him, the glaze of his darkened eyes blows him away. The dim light traces shadows on Paul’s face and in the curve of his neck. The tape is still playing, industrial rhythm relentless, like the bobbing of his head, slow and steady.

Till leans back on his forearms, his eyes glued to his friend. Pleasure pools in waves and he tries hard to stifle all of his moans, focused on the wet sounds of Paul’s lips on his skin. Time stretches and contracts. When his breath hitches and his thighs start to tremble, Paul stops.

“Feels good, huh?” A lazy nod. Paul licks his lips and it looks obscene. “They say men give better head. What with knowing what it’s like, what feels good and all.”

“Makes sense...”

“I can get you off if you want and we call it a night. Or we can make it last.”

“I don’t wanna come yet,” murmurs Till. He’s on edge and he’s dying to come but the desire for something else creeps in. More.

Paul smiles and stands up. Till gathers his wits and sits up to reach out for Paul’s belt. The outline of his hard-on is obvious and dangerously close to Till’s face. He looks up to Paul who just stares at him, jawline sharp, lips pink and shiny. Till’s fingers feel like cotton but he manages to open Paul’s belt and his fly. His jeans just drop at his ankles and turns out he’s not wearing any underwear. Till feels the heat spreading on his face and averts his eyes.

The bluntness of the situation is sobering: maybe he really did get ahead of himself, here. He takes it slow, hoping his heartbeat will calm down. It’s very easy to caress Paul’s thighs and hips though; his skin is smooth and inviting. He’d shower the flat, fuzzy plane of his belly with kisses if he’d dare to. When he finally gathers the courage, he runs his fingertips along his friend’s cock before gripping it for good. Paul lets out an appreciative sigh and brings a hand to Till’s face, brushing his cheek, then pressing two fingers to his lips. For a second, Till tries to resist and clenches his teeth, upset by the intrusion, but he soon lets Paul in. It feels a bit embarrassing yet he lets the nimble fingers explore his mouth, caress his tongue, and he sucks on them while slowly pumping on Paul’s cock. His gaze is still on him, intent and black. Till’s body is awash with arousal and he feels himself slip; lust takes over, and all of a sudden, everything is simple.

Paul suggests they lie down on the bed and he obliges, pressing himself against Paul’s naked body to kiss him again and lick the sweat off his neck. He slides the back of his fingers along his sharp collarbones, the curve of his shoulder, and takes a good look at him. He’d already seen him naked as well, but he never watched him. He’s thin and pale, dusted with freckles, but there is nothing feminine or fragile about him. Till rolls them over to be on top, and this too is easy: this is where he belongs and this is what he’s good at. (He’s not handsome and he tends to behave like a dick, yet girls are always coming back to his bed. He must be doing something well, right?)

Paul runs his hands up his flanks, on his chest, slow and appreciative. “God Till, you’re so hot,” he breathes with a delighted smile.

“Oh quit it, you’re drunk,” mutters Till, more annoyed than mean.

He’s lying with one of his thighs between Paul’s legs and for a moment, he just grinds against him. The full body contact is more intimate than getting his dick sucked. He feels Paul panting against his neck. Desire pulses in his veins, from the bottom of his spine to the tip of his fingers. This time, tightening them around Paul’s cock comes natural and the sensation of it hardening to his touch is amazing.

A dick is a dick, and yet this is definitely crossing a line. It isn’t about passively taking, or pretending, or pretenses anymore. It is about giving pleasure to a man. He knows he can do it and he wonders if he’ll be good enough that Paul will be coming back too.

It feels a lot like jerking himself off. Hell, even the angle isn’t that new, his own cock resting on Paul’s thigh only centimeters away. He spits in his hand to make it glide even more and Paul bucks in his fist, whimpering. He looks at him, biting on his bottom lip, eyes sultry.

“Do you want more?” asks Till, voice low.

“What are you offering?” Paul’s cheeks are red and he’s disheveled. Till has a hard time recognizing his friend, wondering if he ever knew him at all.

“Want me to fuck you?” Till winces at how blunt he sounds.

Paul’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Wow, uh… Yeah.” He pauses. “You did that before, right?”

“Yeah, I did.” More than once: a couple of years ago, he dated a girl who was terrified of getting pregnant. Intercourse was completely out of the question. She didn’t want to hear about condoms, or the pill, or anything. Till thought he’d get tired of the thing very quickly but he found himself enjoying a lot the amount of oral and anal sex they had. He saw her at the supermarket six months after they broke up. She was with her new boyfriend and obviously knocked-up. For some reason, it hurt. “You?”

“A couple of times. On this end, I mean.”

“Okay. Get on your belly...”

Till’s heart is racing faster as he tastes the freckles on Paul’s shoulders and licks his way down his back, kissing the little knobs of his vertebrae. Paul twists his neck and he can feel his gaze on him, hot and heavy. His spine is a smooth line in the dimness of the bed; it curves into a beautiful arch when Till’s tongue reaches between his buttocks. Delighted by Paul’s loud moan, he starts teasing his hole and slowly rims him. Paul gasps and grinds back against his face. It takes Till all the patience and self-control he can muster in his drunken state to keep going instead of trying to fuck him already. And patient he is, stroking his thighs and licking until his jaw aches and the coil of flesh there feels relaxed enough to go on. Eventually, he spits crudely on Paul’s crack and sits back on his heels.

Overwhelmed with the intensity of it all, at that stage, he almost hopes that Paul will prevent him going further. But he remains silent, greed in his eyes as he watches Till spit in his hand again and coat his cock with it. So Till does what his whole body craves; lines up, slowly pushes in—and stops as soon as he sees Paul hissing and furrowing his brow. “Are you okay?”

“God, your tongue felt so good,” sighs Paul shakily.

“What about my cock?”

“It feels… huge.”

“It’s not. We can stop if you want.”

“I don’t. Just… take it slow. I’m good.”

Paul shifts a bit under him and Till presses forward. He sinks in to the hilt and stops again, his hips flush against Paul’s ass. He’s tight and hot and he bites his lips with an abandon that shakes Till to the core. Paul reaches back and grabs Till’s hip, keeping him close, before rocking back against him. Till takes the hint and starts sliding in and out, as slowly as he can, gliding back in more easily every time. The tension in Paul’s face fades and turns into something else.

“Put this under my belly,” he mutters while throwing a pillow at Till, who obliges. The next few thrusts get Paul moaning in earnest and Till starts fucking him for good. Mesmerized, he watches Paul taking it—like a fucking man.

An ass is an ass, but he keeps his eyes open because it’s Paul. As much as he’s always been fascinated by his freedom, his drive, and his boldness, this is next level. Paul did tell him he’s into guys, he saw him kissing men a couple of times, and sometimes he dresses really, really queer, but for some reason, Till never really took it seriously, thinking it was just a game, provocation, edginess.

His brain is swimming in alcohol by now, but everything feels as real and as sharp as a blade. He’s always been good at pushing his feelings aside, especially when it comes to sex, but the situation is so unusual there is no familiar pattern he can fall back on. He feels cornered, and his act, not very convincing in the first place, is melting away. He hasn’t felt so naked for ages.

Pleasure is building fast in his groin; he feels at the brink embarrassingly quickly. He tries to slow things down and kisses the nape of Paul’s neck. He isn’t buying it. “More,” he demands through clenched teeth, arching his back, and Till snaps his hips again, bursts of pleasure bubbling in his core.

“I, hum. I’m sorry, I think I need a break,” he murmurs, mortified.

“What?”

“I’m just… Let me catch my breath, okay?”

He reaches for the bottle of schnapps on the bedside table and takes a generous gulp. Paul turns around and does too. Till notices he’s shivering. He’s trying hard to cool down a bit, thinking about the most boring things on earth, but Paul is making it hard: sprawled out naked on his bed, legs spread, drinking straight from the bottle, his hard-on resting on his belly, he’s a picture of self-indulgence and depravity. Even this weird, girly bangle he’s been wearing on one of his ankles lately just looks decadent, making his nakedness more obscene. This isn’t even a question of lust: what Till feels is admiration and a pang of envy. More than ever before, he just wishes he were more like Paul; confident, shameless, and knowing who to get his pleasure from. Till had been accused of being self-indulgent and shameless more than once in his life, and rightfully so, but there are lines he never thought of crossing. And here he is, right at the border.

His hands run from Paul’s hips to his chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. He’s trying to buy time of course, but it’s not just about that. He starts jerking him off again. It’s not enough. “C’mon,” says Paul, hooking one of his legs around Till’s waist to bring him closer. So Till slides back in the wet, tight warmth, and starts rocking his hips at a pace that soon has him writhing again. “… Closer,” he murmurs.

Till braces on one arm so he can lie over his friend without crushing him. This isn’t the most comfortable position but the tension in his muscles is a nice diversion from the heat building at his hips. He feels Paul’s breath on his lips, his chest heaving against his, his hands roaming on his back, keeping him close. This very closeness is almost unbearable—Till doesn’t know what he expected when he stepped in this room, but certainly not the most intimate fuck he’d had since forever. He’s suddenly aware that the last few months, the sex he had with his last girlfriend had nothing on this, and just like that, he understands why she left. Blissful and defeated, Till bends his head to bury it in Paul’s neck, unable to face it all. He surrenders to the only thing he knows he can always fall back on: pleasure.

Paul is rocking back against him and he’s the one setting the pace, by now. Till feels his orgasm building fast. When Paul grabs his ass on one thrust to force him deeper, he tips over, squeezing Paul’s hip with his free hand to keep him still as the overwhelming pressure gives way to the sweetest release.

“Shit,” he moans as soon as he gathers some of his spirits. His heart is beating so fast he feels like he’s going to pass out. “I, uh. I swear I usually last longer,” he mumbles, exhilarated and a bit embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” says Paul with a breathy chuckle. “Stay inside for a minute, yeah?”

Till feels him reaching down to jerk off. He bats his hand away. “I’m gonna get you off. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

Dots of light are dancing under his eyelids when he blinks. Paul whimpers, obviously annoyed, but accommodates. The remnants of his orgasm pumping in his veins, he slides down Paul’s body and settles between his legs. He brought one of his knees up: Till leans against his thigh and starts kissing it, reaching out to jerk him off very slowly. The skin of Paul’s inner thigh is soft and milky white. Till licks and nibbles in earnest, and he feels Paul shivering against his cheek.

“Sensitive, huh?” he whispers.

“Come on, stop teasing, you said you would get me off!” moans Paul, and Till smiles.

His fingers brush the tip of Paul’s cock. It’s so wet… Till licks the precome off his fingers—salty, watery, just like his—and meets his friend’s gaze. He unconsciously bites his lip and is all of a sudden very aware of what he must look like. The realization sparks a new twinge of lust.

He never really intended to suck Paul off—nor he intended to fuck him in the first place—but his mind is racing and after all, he’s not sure he’ll ever get another chance to give it a try. He feels his cheeks burning: exhilaration, arousal, and something like fear or shame. The shame he felt when he got his first kiss and he wasn’t really sure the girl didn’t do it just to make fun of him later on (eventually, turned out she did). The fear he feels when he’s stealing anything bigger than a bottle of beer or a box of cookies, or when he’s fucking a woman who’s clearly someone else’s girlfriend and he hears someone at the door (stealing and fucking have a lot in common; in both cases, it’s a matter of tempo, of reading someone else’s body, of quick decisions—when to coo, use force, or bolt).

If he sucks Paul’s dick there is no way back. What if he doesn’t like it? Worse: what if he does? What if he makes a fool of himself? He doesn’t want to look like he has no idea what he’s doing, he doesn’t want to lose the upper hand, and Paul’s cock looks huge, all of a sudden. But then again, it can’t be that complicated, right?

He’s still high on endorphin and he feels exquisitely drunk. Arousal, fear, shame—danger. If he wasn’t getting off on this, he wouldn’t be here anyway.

He leans forwards, licks the bead of precome forming at the slit, and lets the tip of his cock slide in his mouth. He hears Paul gasp and starts, well, sucking as best as he can. He must be bright red—he feels it—and he gulps before he gathers the strength to meet Paul’s eyes. He’s staring at him with wide, dark eyes and slight disbelief and that’s all he needs: he starts bobbing his head up and down, slowly, Paul’s hand firm at the back of his neck as if he’s worried he’s going to change his mind.

There is nothing quite like that. He feels exposed and the thrill is astounding. There is something safe in going down on women, that’s probably why he likes it so much—the smell, the feeling of being sheltered between the thighs, the weird symbolism of coming home. But this, this is something else completely. It feels threatening, potentially humiliating. But then the moans it gets from Paul, the trembling in his thighs, the feeling of transgression and the sleaze of his own spit running on the fist he curled around Paul’s cock, where his mouth can’t reach… This is all way more arousing that he’d been willing to admit.

“Holy shit, Till”, says Paul, running his fingers through Till's hair. “This feels so fucking good. You think you can take me deeper?” This, too, is definitely arousing, and at the moment nothing matters more than pleasing Paul. He just goes for it and shoves his cock in his mouth as far as he can, almost choking in the process. “Not like that! Take it easy, you’re gonna hurt yourself!”

If he was red before, he’s probably crimson by now. He’s tempted to give up altogether, but it’s not an option. And it’s not just a matter of pride either—he wants to be good at that too. “Well, just, uh. Just tell me how,” he blurts out, cheeks burning.

“What?” Paul isn’t going to make it any easier on him, obviously. To his defense, he looks wrecked and about to burst.

“Teach me.”

Paul swallows a curse but nods slightly. “Okay. Just take it slow, very slow. You don’t have to do anything for now, just relax your jaw. Let it happen.”

What is he supposed to do with that? He licks the length of Paul’s cock and leans in to take it in again, but Paul pulls him by the hair and yanks him back with a force that startles him. “What now?”

“Oh God, sorry. I’m so fucking close, I really almost…” Paul strengthens up a bit, rubs his face, and grabs the bottle again, drinking a few gulps with a hum of pleasure. “Here. Want some?”

He takes the bottle gladly, smiling as he watches Paul lie down again and take a deep breath. He’s coming undone and he's struggling to keep his composure. Till is delighted to see the tables turn, at last.

This time, he holds Paul’s gaze as he takes him in his mouth, sees him bite his lip, and he does just what he said: he tries to relax his jaw and lets him in. Paul’s fingers are firm but not heavy on the back of his neck. One of his thighs is resting on Till’s shoulder; he uses it as leverage to push himself further in Till's mouth, slow and easy. The sensation of his mouth getting filled like that is extremely pleasurable, which he didn’t really expect—more: to his own astonishment, he realizes that he’s getting hard again. When he grinds against the mattress, it sends sparks of pleasure up his spine. At some point, it feels like Paul can’t get any further, and he realizes that he’s so deep in his mouth his nose is almost reaching his pubic hair. He gulps, which makes Paul sigh obscenely, and draws back, out of breath. It’s easier the second time. He keeps going as steady as he can, choking moans around Paul’s cock and grinding his hips against the mattress at the same pace, hoping with all his might that his friend doesn’t notice. He only slows down when he feels Paul’s cock stiffening against his tongue and his grip tightening on his hair. Taken aback, he hears Paul’s loud gasp and lets him come in his mouth. When he draws back, he spits it out clumsily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Paul looks exhausted and elated. He looks at Till with a dreamy smile. “So hot, Till.” He slides under the comforter and Till joins him, mind buzzing with a mix of alcohol, pleasure, frustration, and incredulity. Paul immediately curls up against him and kisses his lips. “’T was good, mh?” he murmurs, his hands resting lightly against Till’s chest. Then he scoots closer and he feels it. His half-closed eyes shoot open. “Didn't you come?”

“Of course I did.”

“And you’re hard again? Seriously?”

“Yeah, uh... C’mon Paul. Touch me,” he mumbles, embarrassed, guiding Paul’s hand on his cock. To his relief, his friend tightens his fingers around his shaft and starts pumping up and down lightly.

“Is that even possible? D’you think you can come again?”

“Well, let’s find out?”

But Paul seems too sloppy to get anywhere. Till is about to protest when he feels Paul’s breath against his ear. “Are you a dream, Till?”

And with that, he falls asleep, a content smile on his lips, his fingers still curled tight around Till’s dick.

*

Till wakes up first. He has a pounding headache and it takes him a minute to realize where he is. Sunlight peeks through the curtains, tracing pale lines over the mess of Paul’s room. It’s probably quite late already. He turns to see Paul still fast asleep next to him, face quiet and relaxed, looking like a fucking child, the half-empty bottle of schnapps resting on the pillow behind him. Memories of the night come back immediately—moist warmth, heavy-lidded eyes, thin, strong hands—, knocking the breath out of him.

It’s been a while, but it’s not exactly the first time Till wakes up in a strange bed with only a sketchy idea of how he got there and how he’ll get out of it. Usually, he just wakes the other person up for round two or—his old favorite—sneaks away and vanishes into thin air. Cowardly and lame, he knows, but alas, he’s never been above cowardly and lame, especially before Nele was born. Running away from Paul is out of the question, so is round two (Till is feeling like shit and really isn’t sure he could bear getting physical with Paul sober, in broad daylight. How it could’ve happened at all in the first place is still a mystery, but he carefully sets the question aside for the time being.) So he discreetely gets up, puts on his shorts, and makes a swift exit. He struggles to find the bathroom and heads for the kitchen, desperate for water, a cup of coffee, and a cigarette.

He didn’t sleep much. He spent a long time staring at the shadows on Paul’s wall, savoring the last embers of the pleasure rush and waiting for the adrenaline to wear off. He tried to process the whole thing a bit, but in the state he was in, his thoughts didn’t go very far. Instead, he focused on collecting as many memories of what had just happened to make sure they’d still be there when the sun rose. He’d felt content, dirty, and elated.

The radio is on and it smells like coffee already: Till finds Flake at the sink, busy doing the dishes. At first, he’s a bit unsettled; he’d been hoping he’d have some time alone with his thoughts. But when Flake, disheveled and a bit pale, gives him a warm smile, he figures a return to something safe and familiar is welcome as well.

“Coffee will be ready in a minute,” says Flake, giving Till an inquisitive look. “If you want painkillers or anything, help yourself. I made an infusion that works great against hangovers because I know you guys. Want some?”

Till suspiciously eyes the brew, unknown leaves swimming like seaweed in the boiling water, but takes the cup Flake hands him anyway. Flake is experimenting a lot with plants lately thanks to a couple of old books he found and Till tries to be supportive (if it gets them high, he must, he figured). He takes a gulp and grimaces. “I don’t know, man. I guess I don’t feel that bad anyway.” Flake chuckles. Till doesn’t even bother asking him if he’s feeling hungover himself: Flake’s resistance to alcohol is staggering.

“Eggs and buns?”

“Sure, sounds great,” answers Till.

He sinks a big glass of water and sits at the table, pensive. He lights a cigarette stolen from the almost-empty pack lying on the table and they remain in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes. Flake’s presence is soothing. His adventures of last night feel far away, almost like a dream. God, he can’t believe they actually fucked. Messing around with a guy is already sort of outrageous by his standards, but actual butt fucking? With Paul of all people?

He decides to busy himself by helping Flake clean up their mess. He gets up to collect the empty bottles lying all over the place, but as if he were aware of his train of thoughts, Flake starts, voice careful and neutral, “Obviously, you didn’t sleep on the c-couch.”

The kitchen and the living room are just one big space and Till stares at the incriminating piece of furniture. He feels the blood rushing to his face. “… No.”

“So you slept with Paul.” Till just smiles, a bit crooked, feeling both embarrassed and proud. “You sure look like the night was short,” snickers Flake gently. He turns to look at him in the eyes. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah, I did.” The answer is spontaneous and easy. Till is more troubled by the whole thing than he’d like but the fact that he loved it is crystal clear, and for now, that’s all he cares about.

Flake doesn’t say anything and brings him some coffee with a knowing smile. All of a sudden, there is a lot of things he wants to ask Flake—What does he think happened between Paul and Till exactly? Is Paul fucking a lot of men? Did Paul and Flake set him up?—but for some reason, this isn’t what leaves his lips.

“Do you guys fuck?” he asks as casually as possible, pilling the racks of empty bottles next to the trashcan.

“No,” answers Flake, and then, frowning, “Did Paul tell you that?”

“No. He, uh… He implied he blows you.” Till feels a bit childish. But actually, the very idea is… He’s fascinated by what Paul and Flake seem to have. Till had best buddies as a teen but they were never that close, living together, creating together, sharing everything... Matthias is a great guy to hang out with and to complain about his parents to but they never shared anything really intimate. And Scholle… Well, Scholle’s gone. Paul and Flake though, they’re so close that when he met them, he thought they were brothers. The idea that they might actually be lovers instead is disturbing and arousing.

“He did, once,” says Flake, voice still neutral. He goes on only when he realizes that Till isn’t going to say anything about it. “We used to, uh, f-fool around, let’s say. A while ago, when we first started to live together. It was mostly, uh, experimental, but it went on for some time.”

“You don’t anymore?” Till tries to hide his curiosity, but he’s surprised and enthralled.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. We probably grew out of it? By now we’re so close it would almost feel incestuous I guess. Besides, I love Paul, but ultimately, I think guys don’t really do it for me,” he concludes matter-of-factly.

Till thinks about it for a while. He’s grateful for Flake’s openness, he doesn’t know many people who’d just admit to something like that. Maybe he should just do the same and tell him what’s on his mind, but he wouldn’t even know how to put it into words. So he grabs an apple and leans on the counter, next to Flake, who’s now busy cooking. Eggs are sizzling in the pan when he finally asks: “Do you guys talk about the people you bed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I try not to do it because most of the time it could get me in trouble but Scholle for instance, he tells me who’s a good lay, who is easy, who swallows, uh… You know.”

“You guys are c-crass.”

“You don’t do that?”

Flake rolls his eyes. “No, because I’m not sixteen anymore,” he says, then turns to Till, giving him a quizzical look. “You’re worried Paul will tell me all the juicy details of your steamy night?” Till uncomfortably swallows his bite of apple. “I don’t really want to know, Till.”

“I blew him,” he finally blurts out with a small, manic smile. “He came in my mouth.”

Flake laughs at that. “Oh dear, I didn’t need… I’m happy for you, really.”

“You are?”

“Well, you sure look pretty pleased with yourself.”

Typical Till. If you’re embarrassed about something, boast about it. He does it all the time: he doesn’t feel less embarrassed, it doesn’t solve anything, but at least people give him a break and with a bit of luck, they feel even more uncomfortable than he does. Flake doesn’t look uncomfortable at all though: he's a clever guy and Till knows that by now, he sees right through him.

“I am. You’ll see, you city punks pretending to be faggots to give you an edge. I’ll teach you all a thing or two,” he says playfully, taking another bite of his apple.

Flake snorts. “Yeah, right. I’m basically spending my life with Aljoscha Rompe and trust me, it takes more than a blowjob to impress me. You don’t wanna know what I’ve seen.”

They both chuckle, and after a few minutes of silence, Till tries something else.

“Wanna spend the night with me, one of these days?”

His throat tightens when he realizes that although he said that just to provoke his friend, he does mean it. He wonders what they’ve been doing with Paul. Flake is sharp and intriguing. He’s taller than Till and probably not as awkward as he seems. He says the most outrageous stuff with the straightest face—and then the stutter... Till would definitely be up to see what he’s like in the sack. That’s one of the things that have been nagging him since last night: if it does mean Till is into guys—and what else could it mean?—, the new possibilities are endless.

“You’re the worst,” laughs Flake, as expected.

“I’m not kidding.”

“I know you’re not,” he retorts with a thin smile. He then takes a good look at him, blue eyes tracing his body from head to toes and back, intent. Till feels very naked and certainly not as confident as he pretends to be. “Not gonna lie, you’re t-tempting, Till, but you’re not my type.”

“Types are bullshit. Is Paul your type?”

“Not. Into. Men. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Honestly? Not anymore.”

He says that with a cocky smile, but for all his bravado, Till is genuinely confused. By now, he doesn’t fool himself anymore and he knows what is hiding behind his blunt-to-rude behavior. He suspects that his friend does too.

“Here, have your eggs,” says Flake with a grin as he sits next to him, casually changing the subject to how he hates metal when something like Poison starts playing on their shitty radio. “What’s the use of pirating the radio from the West to hear crap like that?”

They just eat and chat for a while. Till’s headache is receding and he’s feeling at home in his friends’ kitchen. But when they hear doors opening and closing and water running in the bathroom, his stomach drops.

Paul gets in with a smile, wincing and scrunching up his nose when he leaves the soothing darkness of the corridor.

“Morning sunshines,” he chirps, making a beeline to the stove. He fills a whole mug with Flake’s mysterious beverage, cools it down with water, and knocks it back. Till is flabbergasted. “It works,” shrugs Paul, and he starts to prepare a complicated mix of coffee, milk, and sugar. Flake gets up to serve him eggs and Paul runs his fingers on the nape of his neck. “Thank you,” he murmurs in his ear, and Till feels something stir in his belly.

Sipping his coffee, Paul goes to Till and lays a warm hand on his naked shoulder. He’s very close and he’s shirtless—Till is baffled to see up close where his mouth had been a couple of hours before. Again, something stirs, but hopefully, it doesn’t show.

“You’re good, Till?” he asks with a small smile.

Till nods and Paul finally sits down, apparently satisfied. When his ass hits the crappy stool, he discreetely makes eye contact with Till and cringes exaggeratedly. Astounded, Till huffs a little laugh and reaches out to pat his shoulder apologetically. He’s probably blushing, but he’s relieved by the understated acknowledgment and the complicity glittering in Paul’s eyes.

*

When he leaves his friends a couple of hours later, he feels really good—albeit tired—and the confusion is gone. They make him feel like he belongs and he doesn’t feel that often.

At the door, Paul leans in and kisses him on this weird, ambiguous spot between the cheek and the corner of the mouth. It startles Till, who finds it troubling and sexy. As an answer, he holds Paul’s gaze and kisses Flake square on the lips.

His heart is beating fast as he runs down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with this verbose mess! ♥
> 
> Edit: typos fixed thanks to the amazing [hwbswd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwbswd)


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